Those Four Little Words
by kytheria
Summary: [COMPLETE] Four words can change a life.


**Those Four Little Words**

  


A/N: This is a one shot story composed of three vignettes, depicting how a short phrase can change a life. Mild S/Hr, but no romance. The world of Harry Potter and the respective characters are copyright JK Rowling.

  


  


  


  


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Wouldn't you know it? The first truly brilliant mind to cross over Hogwarts' threshold in Merlin knows how long, and she's a Gryffindor.

  


She's the type of student that teachers adore and pray for when they're surrounded by a classroom of Neville Longbottoms and Seamus Finnegans. 'Please please please, send me one child who actually wants to learn what I have to teach. Let me make a difference!'

  


Our collective prayers have been answered, in the form of one bushy haired, rabbit toothed little girl. She is brighter than any child has the right to be, and truly desires the knowledge we, her professors, offer. I realized long ago that she is not the show-off many of her classmates claim; their mundane minds can not wrap around the smallest of facts. She loves to learn. _The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be lighted._

  


Why couldn't she have been a Ravenclaw?

  


The answer to that is simple enough. Her unwavering loyalty is most definitely not a Ravenclaw attribute. They are the scholars, she is one who will take action. She is Gryffindor at its best. Godric himself would have wept tears of joy had he known her.

  


But for that loyalty, and her Muggle parents, she could have been one of mine. Merlin knows, she has the ambition. Do you think I was totally oblivious to her theft from my storeroom? But I am a serpent, and we have patience along with our skills of observation. I wanted to know- could she do it? It was a simple matter to slip into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom and check the potion. As I stood over the simmering cauldron and observed the contents, I would have gladly awarded Gryffindor 100 points for her mind alone. No second year had ever been able to brew Polyjuice-- except for myself.

  


Even if she were Ravenclaw, I could help her along in small ways. Many of them will take the Mark when they reach age, for different reasons than the power-hungry Slytherins, but we all know the end does not justify the means. Ravenclaws will do anything for knowledge-- even if it means selling their souls. If she were Ravenclaw, I could nurture her mind while keeping it away from the Dark Lord. I could help her.

  


But as the Fates would have it, she is neither Ravenclaw nor Slytherin. She is Gryffindor, and the best friend of The Boy Who Lived, and therefore, I can do nothing. With the news of the Dark Lord's imminent return, I dare not single her out and place her in any more danger. Many nights, I sat alone in my rooms, considering the options, but my hands are tied. The only way I could help her now would be to teach her Dark arts, and that is something I refuse to teach and she would refuse to learn. We both understand that the Dark arts will master you long before you ever master them.

  


We both have roles to play. I must favor the pathetic children in my house to keep up the deception, and she must help her friends as they prepare for the coming battles. The Fates are cruel, but we play with the hands we are dealt. She knows this as well as I do, and in the future we will be able to rise past that. That knowledge keeps me going in my darkest moments.

  


And so goes the charade. The Dark Lord and the Death Eaters must never know my desire to help this brilliant girl. They must never know that her clever mind will be the key to their downfall. In my facade, I sneer and throw insults at her. I give her detentions and mock the mind that I admire so much. I take away points from her house, and wait.

  


I wait because I know one day, her cleverness will be able to unravel the small clues I've given, and she will seek me out. Only then will I be able to take her under my wing and teach her all the things that one of her intelligence should know.

  


One day, she will understand. Until then, all I can do is pray that she can forgive me, as I look into her horrified eyes and sneer, "_I see no difference_."

  


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It's funny how your life can change with just four little words. Professor McGonagall's words to my parents, "She is a witch" began my series of adventures in a world that I'd always been told was make-believe. The Sorting Hat was placed on my head and declared, "It must be Gryffindor!" matching me with people that became my family over the next seven years. "It's my fault, Professor," started my friendship with Ron and Harry. 

  


In my seventh year, my worst year at Hogwarts, four little words came into play again, changing my world forever. "Ronald Weasley is dead," the Headmaster told me, his familiar blue eyes subdued and full of pain. I don't remember much of what happened after that. I gasped and the world began spinning. Strong arms covered in black velvet caught me just before I fell, and then everything around me winked out of existence as comforting darkness took hold.

  


I woke later in the Hospital Wing to find Professor Snape, of all people, hovering over me, the familiar scowl wiped from his face. As soon as he saw me focus on him, it fell back into place and he summoned Madame Pomfrey, leaving in a flurry of black robes. The next few weeks were horrible, as my classmates avoided me and Harry and my teachers treated me as if I were made of glass.

  


Except for him, that is. Professor Snape was just as hard as ever, and I began to look forward to his class, if only so I could feel a few minutes of blessed normalcy. Of course, grief works in funny ways, and soon enough I was infuriated that his heart could be so cold. I had just lost my best friend, and his constant ridicule, even if it was an act, wasn't helping one bit. All through that class, I watched him pace the room like a panther, dangerous and heartless, and my anger grew.

  


The funny thing about that is I hadn't hated him for years. After what Harry began to refer to as the "teeth incident", I sought him out to give him a piece of my mind and began to understand the game he was forced to play. He would give me detentions (never ones that showed up on my record) in an attempt to hide what was truly happening, and we would spend those evenings pouring over ancient tomes or working on new potions to benefit the war effort. He made it quite clear that we must be careful around each other whenever we might be observed, but in private, we became-- not friends, by any means-- but something more than just teacher and student. I admired him. Under normal circumstances, I would not have been bothered by the deception in the least, but these weren't normal circumstances. Even some of the Slytherins were wondering why he was being so hard on Harry and me.

  


When the class was over, I waited behind until he shut the door and turned to me warily. I advanced on him, my entire being alight with fury. He stood motionless as I hit him over and over, screaming and crying as my grief came to surface. Once the storm passed, he put his arms around me and held me close as we both sank down to the cold stone floor of the potions classroom. We stayed like that for a long time, until my tears subsided and my body stopped shaking.

  


"Here", he said in his low voice, conjuring a handkerchief, "you have snot on your face."

  


That got a laugh out of me, albeit a weak one. "Thanks," I murmured as I blew my nose.

  


"Better now?" he asked, brushing some stray curls back from my face. I nodded, suddenly exhausted by my outburst. "I'm sorry I hit you," I whispered, feeling guilty as I realized what he had been doing. Who knew grief and anger better than the man holding me? Who else would have been kind enough to be so cruel?

  


He chuckled, "Don't make it a habit, Miss Granger. I'd hate to become a Gryffindor punching bag, even if it is for the better good." He helped me to my feet and I cast the charms necessary to fix my appearance and heal his small wounds.

  


"Thank you, Professor Snape. For everything."

  


He waved off the apology, and as I turned to go, he spoke again, those four little words.

  


"Ron Weasley is dead. But you, Miss Granger, are still alive Remember that." He gave me a small nod which I returned before hurrying off to my next class.

  


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There are precious few things I've ever wanted out of life-- to become a Potions Master, which I accomplished, to have some companionship, which I found in Professor Snape née Granger when she returned after college to take the surprisingly empty Defense Against the Dark Arts post, and to be free from fear.

  


I still can't believe I have all three.

  


The Great Hall is in an uproar as the students rejoice, and for the first time, the noise doesn't bother me. There is a group of aurors mixing with the students, purifying the houses of those who bear the Dark Mark. Dumbledore is shaking the hand of The Boy Who Lived, who right now is looking dazed, as if he, too, can't believe it's all over.

  


My beautiful wife, having forgotten that I am not one for public displays of affection, has thrown her arms around me, and for the first time it doesn't bother me one bit. She is crying, her tears mingled joy and sadness as she remembers all this war has cost.

  


But was it worth it? To be free from fear, absolutely.

  


Potter is standing beside us now, and I gently untangle myself from Hermione's grip so she can greet him. When they embrace, I could swear I see a third person there, his red hair gleaming as he throws his arms around the pair. A split second later, he is gone, but even an unsentimental old fool such as myself knows that he is here where it counts-- in the hearts of these two, the heroes of the war.

  


"The curse worked, Harry?", my wife asks him, and his face breaks out into a smile. "Of course it did. You made it," he says. I couldn't agree more.

  


Harry extends his hand to me, our grudge long forgotten, and I clasp it gladly. "Fifty points to Gryffindor," I murmur, a smirk playing across my lips. "Only fifty?", he teases in return, and I give him my most dour scowl. "Your house needs no more glory, Potter. It produced you and Hermione. That is recognition enough."

  


They grin at each other, and Dumbledore, who apparently heard my comment as well, gives me a fond glance before turning his attention back to the students.

  


The merriment is so great that even the Headmaster has a hard time regaining order. When all the students have quieted down and reclaimed their seats, the most powerful wizard of our time stands and announces those four little words.

  


"The war is over."

  


The cheers cheers are so loud that even with the Muffling Charm around the grounds, I am certain they can hear us in Hogsmeade. No matter, because I am cheering myself.

  


We are free from fear, from tyranny, and for just this one moment, from hate. Pure-bloods are embracing Muggle-borns as equals. Slytherins are celebrating with Gryffindors. Students and teachers alike are raising their goblets to Harry and Hermione, and there's not a dry eye in the Great Hall-- even my own.

  


I know that tomorrow the old prejudices will fall back in place as we begin the painful task of rebuilding our world. Tomorrow will being the trials of the captured Death-Eaters, and the hunt for those who've escaped. Tomorrow the Ministry will be turned inside out as fools like Fudge will be called to resign, and the innocents being held in Azkaban are freed. Tomorrow other would-be Dark Lords will begin their scheming, because evil never dies.

  


I know all this, but as I applaud with the rest of them, it doesn't matter.

  


Because tonight, we are free.

  


The war is over.


End file.
